


it’s Christmas Eve & I can see we’re in love

by blainedarling



Category: One Direction (Band), Zayn Malik (Musician)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Christmas Eve, Explicit Language, Fluff, M/M, Mild Smut, Non-Explicit Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-09 01:01:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5519675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blainedarling/pseuds/blainedarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s Christmas Eve and Zayn can’t decide whether it’s the best or worst time to find his way back to Harry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it’s Christmas Eve & I can see we’re in love

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this](http://write2014.tumblr.com/post/99387718043/just-because-i-didnt-beg-for-you-doesnt-mean-i).

The first flecks of snow are beginning to fall as the taxi turns off the main road onto the narrow curve that leads to the house. Zayn catches the driver’s gaze in the mirror, the pinch of his eyebrows that says: _you better be tipping me for this._

Zayn sets his mouth in a firm line and leans back against the seats. _Maybe this is a mistake_. It’s Christmas Eve and it’s late and it’s cold and Zayn probably shouldn’t be here.

The car grinds to a halt on the gravel path and Zayn digs out his wallet. He fiddles with the zip, wondering if he should just tell the driver to turn around take him right back to the station. 

The driver clears his throat pointedly and Zayn tugs out a few notes and stuffs them at him. “Keep the change.”

It’s an excessive tip, even with it being Christmas, even with the weather as awful as it is outside and getting worse by the minute. The driver’s eyes widen but he doesn’t comment more than to say a murmured thanks. If he recognises Zayn in the overhead light that flicks on when he opens the door, he doesn’t mention it.

“Merry Christmas,” the driver grunts. He starts reversing out of the driveway before Zayn’s even closed the door behind him.

Zayn watches him go with his hands stuffed into his pockets. “Wanker,” he mutters and turns to stomp up towards the house. His feet slow as he gets nearer to the door. It’s _Christmas_ and he’s suddenly very aware that he’s turning up empty handed, not even a shitty bottle of wine to offer.

He sighs and stops on the top step, looking back over his shoulder. He can’t very well walk back to town and all the shops will probably be closed by now, anyway. His leather jacket was a mistake, too—it’s miles too thin in this weather. His teeth chatter and he curls his hands into fists in his pockets, trying to keep the heat trapped into his body as much as possible. He thinks wistfully of his thick woollen coat back in his house and wishes he’d thought this through a little better. 

He’s here now. He might as well just ring the doorbell. 

Zayn bites his lip and stares down the door, hard. He can hear voices inside and the lights are on, so they’re home. He knows that much. “Please be Harry,” he whispers to himself. “Please be Harry that comes to the door.”

Anne would be fine, too—she’s always had a soft spot for him. Always coddles him and offers him seconds and thirds when he comes to dinner and tops up his wine even before Harry’s. He still doesn’t feel he knows Robin all that well but he wouldn’t be anything less than civil with Zayn, especially on a night like this.

He presses his cold finger to the doorbell. It echoes inside the house.

Harry, Anne, or Robin. Just not—

“Gemma!” Zayn says, forcing a bright smile onto his face as the door opens to Harry’s sister.

Her blonde hair is tied up into a bun, a large festive sweater hanging over a pair of leggings and thick, woollen socks. “Zayn.” She folds her arms across her chest and makes no move to step out of the space of the doorway. “What are you doing here? Are you lost?”

Zayn tries not to visibly wince. He probably deserves that. Gemma will know everything, always the first person Harry calls when something goes wrong with him and Zayn. Zayn supposes she hears good things, too, sometimes, but he gets the feeling Gemma doesn’t much like him at the best of times. And this is hardly the best. “Is, uh. Is Harry here?”

“Yes.”

Zayn grits his teeth. “Right, well. Could I see him, then? Please?”

Gemma’s eyes flash angrily and she steps forward, lowering her voice to a hiss. “You know what, you little—”

“Zayn! Sweetheart, it’s so wonderful to see you!” Anne pointedly pushes Gemma out of the way and wraps her arms around Zayn. “You’re frozen!” She frowns and cups his face in her hands, peering down at him.

Zayn shivers at the warm contact to his cool skin. “Starting to snow,” he comments, nodding back towards the way he came. “Chose a good night for it, eh?” He chuckles.

“And not even wearing a proper winter coat, honestly, Zayn. What would Trisha say?” Anne smiles at him and pulls him inside. 

Gemma stands by the doorway, still scowling.

“Gemma, go and heat up that second bottle of mulled wine.” Anne shoos her away and turns to Zayn again once the door’s shut. “You alright, then? What brings you to our door at this time on Christmas Eve? Won’t your family be missing you?”

Zayn shakes his head. “It’s fine, they know I’m here. Mum knew I needed to come, practically kicked me out of the house, she did.” He chuckles and looks down at his feet.

“Were you pacing?” Harry hovers in the doorway to the living room, the sleeves of his hoodie stretched down over his hands. “You always pace when you’ve got something on your mind. Drives everyone up the wall.”

Just seeing Harry again, right there in front of him, makes Zayn’s stomach do somersaults. He looks good—he looks _rested,_ and it’s been a long time since Zayn’s been able to say that about any of the boys.

Although, it’s been a long time now since he’s seen any of the boys. 

Harry looks warm and soft and just like the boy that Zayn fell in love with when he was seventeen and overwhelmed and he’d needed an anchor to tie him down. 

“Hiya, Harry,” Zayn murmurs.

“Hi, Zayn.” Harry doesn’t move towards him, just fiddles with one of his sweatshirt paws, scrubbing it over his chin.

“Right.” Anne claps her hands together. “Well. Let me find you one of Harry’s jumpers to pull on while you warm up. And maybe a blanket, too.” She steers him by the shoulders towards Harry. “Go on, then, you two. Go and sit down and have a catch up.”

Zayn shrugs off his jacket and leaves it in the hall along with his boots. He can feel Harry’s gaze on him as he fumbles with the laces. It makes the tips of his ears heat up and he feels self-conscious when he straightens up and meets his gaze again.

Gemma brings them each a large mug of mulled wine, although she looks at Zayn like she’d rather dump his over his head.

“Gem, it’s okay,” Harry mutters, curled up at the opposite end of the couch to Zayn, feet tucked under his bum. 

She rolls her eyes and heads upstairs.

Zayn doesn’t say a word. He cradles the mug in his hands and lets the sweet steam tickle his nose. The fireplace crackles quietly across the room and the upstairs floorboards creak as Anne bustles around.

“So.” Harry won’t meet his gaze now, tapping his fingers off the rim of his mug. “You’re here.”

Zayn hums. He takes a large gulp of his mulled wine and it burns the tip of his tongue. “Harry—”

“Here we are, Zayn.” Anne passes him a jumper and drapes a blanket over the back of the sofa. She glances between him and Harry a few times. “I’ll be upstairs. If you need anything.” She hurries off but not without a kiss to the top of Zayn’s head. “It really is good to see you again.”

Zayn sets the mug down on the floor carefully so he can tug the jumper on. He frowns down at it. “This is mine,” he says with a hint of surprise. It’s stretched out a bit around the shoulders, either in the wash or over Harry’s shoulders.

“Yeah, you left quite a few things behind when—” Harry snaps his mouth closed. “Think things just got a bit muddled together. Haven’t properly unpacked from tour yet so when I packed to come here, I just threw things together. Sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologise,” Zayn mumbles and reaches for his mug again. “How was it? The rest of the tour?”

Harry doesn’t answer straight away, burying his face in his mug while he takes a greedy sip. “It was good, yeah. Really kicked it up for America, I think. And the U.K. is always fun, coming home. Just tiring. You know how it is.”

“Yeah.” Zayn watches the second hand of the clock on the mantelpiece tick past the next minute. “The new album sounded good.”

Harry raises an eyebrow. “You listened to it? Didn’t think it would be your… _Style_. Not what you’d listen to at a party with your girl, right?” His tone is flat but his hands have clenched tight around the mug.

Zayn frowns. “Course I listened to it. It’s still— You’re still my best mates.”

Harry scoffs. “Funny that. Haven’t heard from you in, what, eight months? But, of course, we’re still _best_ _mates._ ” He shakes his head. “Heard you’ve got new stuff coming out soon, too. That’ll be nice.”

“Yeah,” Zayn whispers, staring down at the surface of the wine. The orange slice in the mug bobs as he blows cool air over it, ducking below the surface before it peeks over the top again.

He knows what Harry’s like when he’s angry. The way it takes over his whole self, his whole body alive with it when he’s really, truly _mad_. He knows how his eyes blaze and his hands won’t stop moving and he can’t sit still for even a second. 

This is different. He’s so controlled, so clammed up that the only way Zayn can be sure he’s feeling anything at all is in the tense line of his body. He’s _hurt_. And that’s so much worse. Anger is an immediate, flash-and-it’s-gone kind of emotion. Hurt lingers. It builds up and settles beneath your ribcage and stays there, throbbing and twisting its way deep into you.

Zayn _hurt_ him. He put that hurt there. And he doesn’t know how to fix it.

“You speak to Lou today? I sent a present to Jay’s house but I don’t know if he got it or opened it. Haven’t heard anything from him.” Zayn tries to sound like it doesn’t bother him, but it does. 

One thing at a time, though. Today is about Harry.

“What are you doing here, Zayn?” Harry sighs. “You didn’t come here to make small talk about the tour that you ditched us on with no more warning than a slip of paper in a hotel room, or an album that you didn’t want anything to do with. Just tell me what you want.”

“I want…” Zayn licks his lips. “I want to apologise.”

“Oh, yeah?” Harry drains his mug and sets it down with a thump onto the floor. “For which bit, Zayn? For leaving the tour? For leaving the band? For going ghost?”

“I—”

“I _know_ it was what you needed. I understand that. Maybe I didn’t then but I sure as hell get it now. I don’t begrudge you for doing something you needed to do for _you_. But you could have handled it so much better and you know it and I know it. You could have spoken to us and given us a little fucking warning so we weren’t left looking like complete idiots standing on that stage as though there was still a fifth person between us. A fifth person who was never coming back.” Harry’s panting now. The anger’s kicking in, starting to bleed through into his words and his actions. “You could have talked to us. We were—fuck, _are_ —your friends. We would have listened. We would have understood.”

Zayn shakes his head. “No, you couldn’t have understood, because it took me _months_ after to understand what I felt at that point. I couldn’t have explained it any better than you could have understood. All I knew was I had to get out. And I had to do it fast or I’d have been too tempted to stay. Not for the fame, or for the performing, or for the music. But for you. For you, and for Louis, and Liam, and Niall. You are my _family_.”

“Yeah?” Harry scrubs a hand through his hair until it falls loose from the half bun he’s had it in, curls cascading over his shoulders. “All of us, just the same? You love all of us in just the same way, do you, Zayn? Or was I different? Tell me I was different.”

“You know you were, Harry. You don’t need to hear me say it to know that you were different. The way I loved you was different. It always was.” Zayn sets down his mug and wraps his arms around himself tightly. “I thought it was the same for you, too, but now I’m not sure.”

Harry stares at him. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Don’t you try and tell _me_ how I felt about you, Zayn. How I… Fuck, how I _feel_ about, you.”

“Phones go two ways, Harry. You didn’t call me, either,” Zayn mumbles.

Harry lets out a choked sound. “Just because I didn’t beg for you doesn’t mean I didn’t want you to stay,” he screams. His voice echoes around the confines of the living room. If Anne or Gemma upstairs hear him, they don’t make any move to come down. The room falls still.

Zayn swallows around the lump that’s formed in his throat. His eyes are prickling at the corners and he has to fight to keep his voice steady. “Just because I didn’t call doesn’t mean I didn’t keep on loving you.”

Harry moves first. He crawls over the space of the sofa and pushes his palms against Zayn’s knees, spreading his legs apart so he can fit between them. “Even now? Even now, Zayn? Do you still?” He whispers.

His breath smells like wine and spices and his lips are stained red. Zayn slides his hands up the back of Harry’s neck, his cold palms making Harry shiver. “Even now, Harry. I never stopped,” he whispers and drags him down.

Zayn’s fingers tangle into Harry’s hair as their mouths come together, hot and fast. Harry’s hands are fisted into the front of Zayn’s jumper and he only holds on tighter when their tongues curl together. 

It’s frantic, but not in the way Zayn knows with Harry. Once upon a time, frantic and rushed was all they had—gasping into each other’s mouths as they tugged each other off behind dressing room doors, giggling into the crook of one another’s necks as they rocked against each other in the early hours before they had to be up and at the next interview, the next press conference, the next photoshoot. It was all they got, the stolen minutes together, in the years before they were ready to admit to even themselves that this was more than they were willing to let on. That the need they felt for each other was far more than lust alone. 

This frantic in a different way. This is _I miss you_ , _I love you, please don’t leave me._

They keep saying it, with their bodies, with their mouths, with their hands, even if they don’t say it aloud yet. They say it as they undress each other with excited, anxious fingers, and they say it as they fall to the floor giggling, Zayn pressing Harry down against the soft rug in front of the fireplace. 

They say it as Zayn entwines his fingers with Harry’s and presses his hands above his head, buried inside Harry. Harry’s legs are around his waist and when his toes curl, Zayn feels them against the bottom of his spine. 

Zayn says it properly, then. 

“I miss you,” he says as he grinds his hips forward.

“I love you,” he says as he presses his mouth to Harry’s collarbone.

“Please don’t leave me,” he says as he sucks a mark into his skin that makes Harry’s back arch off the floor.

Sweat beads across Harry’s hairline and he comes just like that, just with Zayn deep inside of him, bare skin flush together. 

Harry cards his fingers through Zayn’s hair as they lie together in front of the dying embers of the fire. Zayn shivers, one thigh tucked between Harry’s, his head pillowed against his chest.

“I can’t promise not to fuck up again,” Zayn murmurs, tracing the head of one of the swallows with his index finger. “I can’t promise not to hurt you. I make mistakes, Harry.”

“You’re allowed to make mistakes, Zayn.” Harry kneads the back of his neck. “You’re allowed to fuck up.” He smiles down at him. “We both are.” He sighs softly and his breath skitters over Zayn’s lips. “You only have to promise you won’t leave. That you won’t just run when things get hard. When we fuck up, we work through it, together. When you’re angry, or upset, or struggling, you tell me about it. I don’t care if you scream it in my face, as long as you don’t try and solve all of your problems by just walking out of the door.

“I meant what I said before. I don’t begrudge you for leaving the band. I only want you to be happy. That’s all any of us want.” Harry tilts Zayn’s chin up to him and kisses his lips sweetly. “Stay here tonight?”

“Mm, and the next?” Zayn smiles against his lips.

“And the next, and the next, and the next,” Harry whispers.

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas to those who celebrate and happy holidays to everyone else! I hope everyone is keeping warm and well.


End file.
